


Slouching Towards Elysium; or, All Bunnies Go to Heaven

by valety



Category: Sam & Max
Genre: Gen, Spoilers, post-season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 00:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19734322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: Based on the 20th-century poem by W. B. Yeats.Sam visits Hell.





	Slouching Towards Elysium; or, All Bunnies Go to Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> so like a month and a half ago I saw that announcement about all those Telltale games getting delisted from GOG and I panicked because I used to adore the Sam & Max series and realized I didn’t currently own any of the games since I’d played them all on a console I no longer own and _what if they became impossible to buy????_ so I bought the entire series on Steam and promptly inhaled them for the first time in like a decade, luxuriating in my own nostalgia and cringing at the occasional datedness, and then this happened
> 
> inside you there are two wolves. one firmly believes that the heart of Sam & Max is lighthearted comic surreality. the other still feels kinda glum about the way The Devil’s Playhouse ended. they devour each other and you settle for attempting to strike a tone of wistful absurdity

It wasn’t easy going anywhere without Max. The irascible little imp seemed to have a sixth sense about that kind of thing, particularly when the activities Sam was heading to without him had the potential to be described as “wanton.”

(Maybe _sixth sense_ wasn’t the phrase Sam wanted here. Thinking about Max in the vicinity of any sort of extrasensory perception, even in the strictly idiomatic sense, made him feel all squirrelly these days.)

There was nothing wanton, destructive or otherwise, about what Sam was hoping to do tonight, but that hadn’t stopped Max from making a real nuisance of himself every time Sam had tried to leave without him these past few days. It had been long enough since the last time Sam had actually _wanted_ to go someplace alone that he’d forgotten just how peevish Max could get about being left behind. You’d think Sam would have learned that particular lesson by now, considering the way Max _still_ brought up that silly dunk tank, but apparently that was one moral that had passed right on through his brain and out the other end – like cottage cheese through a strainer, someone had said once. Sam didn’t much like being alone either, but there was a difference between, say, getting upset over your best friend being kidnapped or lobotomized and the kinds of hissy fits Max would throw when he thought he was being left out of something fun. And always with the loosest possible definition of the word _fun,_ too.

Fortunately, Sam knew Max well enough to know all it took to put him out like a light was that cocktail of skim milk and gummy bears he occasionally took before bed. Max was a light sleeper on the best of nights, prone to screaming himself awake from night terrors, but that particular saccharine beverage would knock him back out every time without fail. It was either because he found it comforting or because an unidentified allergy caused his organs to shut down upon consumption. Either way, making a pitcher had served Sam’s purposes tonight. He’d make sure to check if the little guy was still breathing when he got back.

It seemed to Sam as though the subway to the afterlife ought not to be so easy to access for a decidedly-alive individual with no token, but there was no psychopomp in sight these days, meaning there was nothing stopping him from jumping the turnstile. For a while he worried that the new automatic train operator would somehow pick up on his aliveness and tell him to get off, but holding his breath and doing his best impression of Hatshepsut seemed to do the trick. _Funny how more people don’t do this,_ he thought as he gazed out at the rolling hills of sulphur and lava rushing past his window. Maybe they didn’t realize how simple visiting Hell could be.

The train stopped and he got off. Jürgen greeted him at the front desk with the requisite comment about how it truly must be Hell if Sam visited this often. Sam responded with the requisite off-putting cheerful politeness, ignoring the insult completely and enjoying the way Jürgen’s smug demeanour instantly transformed into irritation over his lack of a response, then sidled on by, ignoring whatever Jürgen shouting about a visitor’s pass.

Hell hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d been there. It still felt like wading into a lukewarm puddle of beige and muzak and smelled like the spine-tingling marriage of coffee and old sweat. The biggest difference was the people: Hugh and Brady were nowhere to be seen, having seemingly been replaced at some point by shapeless demonic paper pushers who cheerfully nodded and discorporated as Sam went by. Poor saps must have gotten demoted. The new guys seemed nice, at least. 

The Father of Lies was more or less where Sam had left him last, if you ignored the whole documentary thing last season and pretended that he’d never left his office.

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” Satan clucked, shaking his head as Sam strolled in. “I’d hoped to not have to think about you again until you were really, truly dead, and yet here you stand before me.”

“I get that a lot. Mostly from crooks we’ve put away and ex-dates. What’s new, Beelzebub?”

“Wonderful! You’re as unfunny as ever. Is there something I can do for you, or are you simply looking to secure your spot in the afterlife? I assure you, you don’t need to campaign quite this hard. We’d be happy to have you.”

“Well, that’s _my_ retirement settled then, but I’m here because I wanted to ask you something. You haven’t had any lagomorphs answering to the name of ‘Max’ passing through lately, have you? And by lately, I mean ever? Particularly within the last few months?”

Sam asked this with his hands in his pockets, affecting an air of casualness that he didn’t quite feel, as though maybe if the universe didn’t realize how big the question was it wouldn’t take as much pleasure in answering it the way he feared.

It wasn’t that things were bad with Now-Max. Things were _great,_ in fact. They’d been busy for weeks on end with a whirlwind string of new cases, first with the Banker and then with the Rat Queen and _then_ with the urban gophers. It had been just what they’d needed to get back into the swing of things after that bizarre cosmic horror interlude of a summer. Even with work set aside, Max was as Max-ish as ever, cracking Sam up the way he always had, and most of the time, Sam really, truly didn’t think about it.

But sometimes – usually late at night, when Max was keeping him awake with his sleep-raving – Sam _did_ think about it. And think about it, and think about it, and think about it, and then suddenly, nothing felt quite so great anymore, because his best friend was both dead and sleeping in the bunk over his, and neither of those felt _right._ It was like when Meesta Pizza swapped out their old cheese with that stuff made out of snake’s milk. Everything was different now, whether they wanted to acknowledge it or not, but dwelling on it only made him feel nauseous and kinda bloated.

Then the idea had struck him like a slap to the face on a crisp winter day. They literally _lived_ over the River Styx. If Ex-Max wasn’t going to respond to any of Harry’s séancing (not that he could blame him – he wouldn’t have responded to the moleman either), what better chance did he have of speaking with his little buddy again than visiting Hell in person?

It had been a real hassle, getting here without Now-Max, but that part had felt important. Keeping multiple timelines straight was difficult enough without the added existential weight of knowing your new timeline’s original version of you was still in the picture somehow. Ever since Sam had learned that Now-Max had never learned the truth about the sewer below their building, he’d wanted to keep him from finding out, at least until he’d found his answer.

“Lagomorphs answering to the name of ‘Max’?” Satan repeated. He sounded primly unamused in the most condescendingly British way Sam had heard since Max had started watching Downton Abbey. “You mean that _rabbit?_ The one who ravaged the poor intern I assigned to your personal hell? The one who nearly destroyed the city?”

“You gotta hand it to Max, he sure does know how to leave a memorable impression.” Sam said, smiling despite himself. That work on the demon had really been something.

Satan sighed. If he’d been wearing glasses, he’d likely have taken them off so he could exhaustedly rub his forehead more effectively. As it was, he settled for an ordinary, lower-grade forehead rub. “I hope you know your attempts at subtlety embarrass us both,” he said curtly upon finishing his passive-aggressive implying of a splitting headache. “It is painfully obvious that you’re asking because you hope that that little friend of yours who exploded – ” Sam flinched. “ – is here so you can heroically rescue him and restore him back to life or some such nonsense. Really _,_ Sam, what were you going to do if I said yes? Were you thinking you’d charge, revolver drawn, and intimidate me into releasing him? Or that perhaps you’d somehow be able to outwit me in a contest for his soul?”

Well. “It worked with Bosco,” Sam said defensively.

“Your success there was entirely due to mismanagement. Now that Hell is back under my full control, its operations are not nearly so easy to exploit, and _I_ am not one who is easy to intimidate _or_ outwit. And besides, your friend isn’t here, making it a moot point anyway.”

Satan threw out that last remark so easily Sam almost didn’t catch it. But then he did, or maybe _it_ did, hitting him square in the face like a piano falling down a mineshaft. “What do you mean, not here?” he asked.

“I mean _not here,”_ Satan repeated, more slowly this time, as though trying to give each word the time it needed to fully burrow into Sam’s synapses and nest. “It’s unfortunate, but – ”

“But we have an entire wing of Hell dedicated to us!” Sam interrupted. “There are _statues!_ We were going to have private hells together! How can he not be _here?_ ” He sounded almost whiny, even to himself. How embarrassing.

Satan sniffed. “That was before Max went and made his ‘ _heroic sacrifice,’”_ he replied, voice dripping with disdain and ungesticulated air quotes that nonetheless made themselves as aggressively felt as gnats at a picnic.

“Saving the city was worth _that much?_ But he was the one destroying it!” It felt the teensiest bit disloyal to say that, but Sam was well and truly bewildered now. In what universe could _that_ much property damage _ever_ lead to Heaven? Wasn’t property damage where most bureaucrats drew the line?

Satan crossed his legs, leaning back in his ergonomic swivel chair. “We don’t tell mortals this, but for those who believe in Heaven and Hell, we more or less operate on a points system,” he said. He looked rather bored now, as though contemplating the merits of turning away completely. To his credit, he settled for a kind of half-swivel that allowed him to both gaze ponderously out the window and side-eye Sam superciliously. “It simplifies things a great deal and does wonders for efficiency. Not to mention, it typically aligns with how they’ve already _convinced_ themselves things work, ensuring their compliance. One good deed here, five Heaven points; one bad deed here, five Hell points; and so forth. Sam, I can see you reaching for your gun and I would recommend you remember who I am.”

“I wasn’t,” Sam lied. He shoved his hand back into his pocket.

Satan raised his eyebrows but seemed otherwise unfazed. “You and Max have lived rather... _chaotic_ lives,” he continued. “But the truth is, you’ve been on the side of good more often than not, causing things to balance out. Furthermore, it was determined that Max was not at fault for his little rampage, having not been in his right mind at the time. Thus, his final conscious act being to both protect a mother and her unborn child _and_ to spare the city from destruction was considered _just_ noble enough to let him squeak by. I can assure you I’m as annoyed as you are. I hate technicalities.”

For the first time Sam could recall since they were kids, he found himself regretting just how often he’d stepped in to stop Max from being unnecessarily destructive. If he’d toned it down a little bit, then sure, the number of disembowelments in their borough might have drastically increased, and the number of cases they’d solved might have drastically _de_ creased, but maybe it’d have tipped the scales enough for Max to...

But that wasn’t right. The people who’d have gotten hurt aside, if Max was in Heaven, that was a good thing. Right?

“Well.” Sam could feel himself fumbling. It had been a long time since he’d felt at a loss for words like this. “Well.”

“If I were inclined to empathy I might offer my condolences over what is clearly distressing news for you,” Satan said. “However, I am, in fact, the Bad Guy, and so I must say I find it rather invigorating. The irony of your being in such pain due to your friend receiving his last reward is delicious as well.”

“I’m not sure that’s irony, but I’ll take what I can get,” Sam replied. “Can’t be picky in this economy. Thank you for your time. I’ll be going now, I guess.”

“Yes, go.” Satan waved a dismissive hand and finally swivelled all the way around, leaving Sam to stare at the imposing back of his chair. “When next I see you it had better be because we have a one-on-one torture session scheduled and not because you’ve barged into my office uninvited once again. I can have you barred from the premises, you know, and you won’t enjoy meeting our security.”

Sam left. He didn’t bother annoying Jürgen with more passive-aggressive friendliness on the way out. Somehow it didn’t feel like it’d be funny anymore.

The ride out of Hell felt at least fifteen times longer and bumpier than the ride there had been. Sam probably could have extrapolated some metaphor from that if he hadn’t felt so much like a poster that had been hanging slightly askew on the wall for months and which he’d kept telling himself he’d fix when he had the energy but never got around to. 

It was a little embarrassing to admit it, but he didn’t really know what he would have done if Max _had_ been there. Spectacular psychic explosions tended to induce the kind of dead that was difficult to walk off, and it might have been a little weird to try and drag the guy outta Hades when there was another version of him living in their office now anyway, but that didn’t mean Sam would have been above trying if Ex-Max had been right there in front of him.

He’d known the odds of success were slim, but even so, Sam had had hope. Not that he could bring Max back, necessarily, but that maybe, possibly, he could talk with him again. Their last proper conversation had been on the Statue of Liberty, and the last thing Sam could remember saying to him was _get out of there._ Ever since things had calmed down enough for him to think about anything other than the latest case, he’d found himself returning to the thought that they hadn’t said goodbye to each other over and over again. If he could have just said _nice work_ or _I’ll miss you_ or _remember to wait up for me_ , then it might have been okay.

Sybil would have called that “closure.” But he guessed it wasn’t very likely, now.

The train came to a calamitous stop so jarring and abrupt that Sam almost didn’t need to bother standing up and going to the trouble of walking out the door. He resurfaced via his favourite manhole and found himself greeted by the distinct ambience of The City That Never Sleeps stirring from a catnap. He pretended he could see the stars through the layer of smog and light pollution blanketing the sky, then changed his mind and decided there was something almost cozy about the layer that should be embraced, before finally walking up the steps and back into their building.

He tried to be quiet in what he flattered himself was a particularly considerate gesture to their neighbours and could probably be traded in later for one guilt-free night of can-based target practice. Despite this, he was immediately welcomed by a boxing glove to the face that he only narrowly avoided thanks to the arm it belonged to being both extremely short and incapable of aim.

“Remind me again why we have that punching bag,” Sam asked, holding Max back at arm’s length as he took off his hat.

“...no NOTE, no PHONE CALL, WORRYING ME TO DEATH, in MY OLD AGE, and dinner ICE COLD ON THE TABLE...” Max ranted. Then he actually seemed to realize who was holding him. “Oh, hi, Sam! Where’ve you been?”

“Just looking into something, little buddy,” Sam replied, letting Max go. The boxing glove had already disappeared. He didn’t bother asking where it went. 

Max huffed. “You know you’re not supposed to go on cases without me,” he scolded. “You forget what you’re doing and end up all lost and disoriented in Coney Island, and then _I’m_ the one who has to fish you out of the manta ray tank at the aquarium.”

“Pretty sure it was you that did that.”

“That’s not how _I_ remember it.”

“You don’t remember breakfast.”

“Uh, yeah, because we haven’t _had_ breakfast yet, duh, it’s 1 A.M.” And Max looked at Sam like he was a Hawaiian monk seal with an eel stuck up its nose.

Their usual rhythm dictated that Sam respond somehow to keep the momentum going, probably with another straight line, but he didn’t, this time. Instead, he saw the way Max was looking up at him and felt weirdly guilty. He didn’t know what he’d have done if the other Max _had_ been in Hell, but he’d at least known enough to recognize that he probably didn’t want _this_ Max finding out about it, hence all the secrecy.

It’s not like he’d have kicked him out, though. After all, he loved this Max too. Max was Max was Max was Max. It wasn’t something Sam could help. He’d just wanted that closure, was all – that chance to say goodbye. 

He supposed knowing the other Max was someplace good was probably the best that he was going to get.

Max was still looking up at him, but his expression had changed from expectant to annoyed. “See, this is what I’m talking about,” he said accusatorily, jamming a finger as close to being in-Sam’s-face as he could manage from his unfortunate altitude. “Lost and disoriented! Do you even know where you are right now? Is this your salt deficiency kicking in again?”

“I know exactly where I am,” Sam replied. His voice came a little easier now and he could feel himself settling back into their rhythm. “I’m home with my best buddy and about to pour myself a bowl of forbidden technicolour cereal so I can eat myself sick in the warming glow of late-night television until I pass right back out until dawn.”

“Ooh, late night television?” Max visibly perked up, annoyance fading. “You mean the kind that exists in the liminal state between wakefulness and delirium that government agents use to induce hypnotic states in people? I call the Sprinkle Spangles!”

“Aw, that’s cute. It’s been a while since you’ve last had an inexplicable craving for obsolete cereals.”

There were no Sprinkle Spangles, obviously, but Max seemed satisfied with whatever the hell vaguely-glowing substance he _did_ manage to fill his bowl with, and far be it from Sam to express concern over the amount of radiation Max somehow managed to ingest on a near-daily basis.

They made themselves comfortable on the sofa, channel surfing until they settled on some documentary about barnyard animals getting impregnated by aliens and giving birth to the next evolutionary stage of Bigfoots, eating noisily as Max did his best impression of the smarmy host, and Sam thought: this is one of those moments that feels ordinary. It was something they’d done often enough before to still feel comfortable. Like a body memory, even if one of those bodies was technically completely different. Maybe more like a phantom limb, then, though when Sam let his hand fall onto Max’s head and ruffled his white fur, it felt solid enough.

It felt solid, and Sam thought: if what this Max had said was true, then that meant a Sam somewhere had died as well. With any luck, he’d have cheated his way into Heaven too and found the other Max, the one currently living it up in Elysium. After all, even in an eternal paradise, Max would need someone to look out for him. Otherwise, he’d drive the angels batty. As for _this_ Sam, right here, right now, he had _this_ Max to take care of.

They would catch up with each other later. As long as neither of them was alone, it would be all right.


End file.
